Perilous
by MinP1072
Summary: A Regency romance AU. Orphaned for the second time in her young life, Elizabeth Scott is determined to find out who murdered her father — a challenge made more difficult when everyone believes he died of natural causes. Her search is interrupted by the arrival of an old family friend: Raymond Reddington, the reclusive Earl of Blackwood. Is he still the friend she remembers?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I am definitely no expert in the Regency Era (or history at all). I've read a lot, and done some basic research, but I fully expect there will be factual errors of one kind or another — please excuse them, and know they are those of inexperience. Hopefully, this will be fun…

* * *

**_Prologue_**

The sun shone bright and cheerful, which seemed so strange when everything was still so dark and sad inside her. She clung tightly to Sam's big hand, tangible proof of her own reality, as he pointed at the colourful flowers and told her their names. She wanted her mama instead, but didn't say so; she knew that mama and papa were both gone now, gone away forever to live together in the clouds, without her.

_It isn't fair, _her child's mind cried. _Papa's friend is nice, but he isn't _mine.

Her woeful thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horses trotting and the clatter of carriage wheels. The noises made her jump, and tug at the bottom of Sam's breeches with a trembling hand. She'd always been afraid of horses — they were just _so big _— and since Sam had sat her down and gently explained that her mama and papa had died in a carriage accident, the sound of them made her queasy and afraid.

Sam swung her easily into his arms, understanding, and patted her back gently.

"It's all right," he said. He always kept his big voice quiet when he talked to her, and it made her feel safe. "It's just our guest arriving. Will you stay with me and help me greet him?"

She considered this carefully, a four-year-old waif with the gravity of an eighty-year-old woman, then nodded solemnly. Sam smiled, and turned so they could both watch the carriage approach up the sweeping drive.

* * *

Raymond saw them waiting when he stepped out of the carriage, and the picture made him smile — the gruff old man and the tiny girl.

"Ah, young Reddington," Sam Scott exclaimed, reaching out with his free arm to shake hands. "Good travels, I hope?"

"Pleasant enough, my lord, thank you," he replied politely. In truth, he hated to sit for so long, stuck in the stuffy confines of a carriage. But the trip had been uneventful, and that was worth a fair amount.

Elizabeth stared at the newcomer, entranced — the sun glinted on his rough waves of hair, making them shine like gold. It was like nothing she'd ever seen before; it was just so _pretty _that she longed to touch it, her small hand starting to reach out. Then, she met the stranger's eyes and jerked it back in embarrassment.

"Elizabeth, this is my friend, Raymond Reddington, heir to the Earl of Blackwood." Elizabeth's eyes widened as she attempted to digest this mouthful. "Reddington, this is my ward, Miss Elizabeth Milton," Sam continued. "Her parents were the Viscount and Lady Milton," he added in an undertone.

Understanding flashed in Reddington's face, then he bowed with great solemnity. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Milton," he said, with grave politeness.

She smiled at him suddenly, and it felt like a little burst of light.

"Hello," she answered shyly. "My lord Red– Reddy– Ren–" She paused, puzzling over the unfamiliar syllables. "RED," she said finally, in some satisfaction, a word she knew well.

"Reddington," Sam corrected, slowly and clearly, and she got pinker.

But the newcomer just smiled back at her, open and friendly. "That's all right, sir," he said cheerfully. "We're going to be good friends; Miss Milton can call me Red if she likes."

"And I'm Lizzy, really," she said, giving this lovely new person the nickname her mama had given her.

Sam laughed then, pleased with the two of them. "I can see there's no point lecturing you two on etiquette," he said. "Come in, then, Reddington, and get settled."

Once inside, he put Elizabeth down and patted her gently on the rear. "Go find your nurse now," he said. "But you may have your tea with us, if you like."

She offered Raymond a small wave and trotted off obediently, a small shadow in black bombazine.

* * *

It was actually a few days before Raymond encountered Elizabeth again — she having apparently slept through tea that first day. Sam had kept him busy since then, out on the estate, learning the ins and outs of management that his own father couldn't be bothered to teach him.

He'd watched as his father steadfastly ignored their own holdings, drinking his life away in solitude since the death of his lady. As a result, Raymond burned with a fierce determination to undo the damage and restore Blackwood. As soon as he was finished with his education and had some means of his own, he'd written to an old friend of his father's — Samuel Scott, the Marquess of Blanchford — to appeal for help. In generosity and friendship, Sam had invited him for a visit, promising to teach everything he could.

He was in the study, looking for a treatise on planting that Sam recommended, when he saw her, curled in the corner with an enormous book open in her lap. He crouched down next to her with a smile.

"Well then, Miss Lizzy," he said in a friendly way. "What are you reading so intently this morning?"

She tipped the book so he could see the inside — it was a book of fables. "I can't read yet," she confided seriously. "But my mama used to read me the stories, and if I look at the pictures, I can almost remember them."

His heart went out to her, even his brash twenty-four-year-old self caught by such sweet sadness. He remembered losing his own mama, and how he had longed to hold fast to every memory. He sat down on the floor beside her, concerns of planting and fertilizing forgotten. He put an arm around her and pulled the book over to share.

"I miss my mother, too," he said softly. "Would it be all right if I read you a story?"

Her face turned up to look at him, surprised pleasure lighting her small face. "I would like that very much," she said. "Would you really?"

"Which one is your favourite?" he asked.

She turned the pages and pointed, and he started in. His voice was soft and rumbly — like a bear might sound, she thought — and she hung eagerly on every word. He only had time for one, he said, but when he was done, he gave her a little squeeze with his arm, and she felt ever so much better.

He hunted her up most days after that, to read another story from the book, or to tell her one that he had invented to try and make her laugh. He enjoyed her quiet company and the simple task, a rest from the intensity of the work with Sam. He found it oddly rewarding to gift a period of happiness to another lonely soul.

That was when Elizabeth fell in love for the first time, giving her heart away easily to the golden stranger who told her stories, and helped her feel normal again without really trying.

* * *

**_Chapter One_**

Elizabeth fidgeted impatiently as Sally finished lacing her gown.

"There," Sally said, brushing out the skirts one last time with satisfaction. "It's a lovely gown, Miss, although I'm not sure her ladyship will approve of the colour."

"Luckily," Elizabeth returned evenly, "it isn't up to her."

She didn't really want to go out; didn't care about the expectations of Society, or those of her aunt. But she had made a promise.

Promised Papa that she wouldn't stay in mourning.

Promised that she would listen to Aunt June.

Promised that she would try to find happiness.

Sally hovered anxiously. "Are you certain you don't want me to do more with your hair, Miss? It will only take a moment to heat the curling tongs, I could–"

"It's fine as it is, Sally, thank you." She was tired of it all already.

"Yes, Miss," Sally said, subdued. She hesitated, then picked up a small white box from the dressing table and held it out. "This was delivered for you earlier, Miss."

Elizabeth took the box, curiosity raised by her maid's reluctant tone. Inside was a small cluster of blush pink peonies, with an artfully penned note.

_For luck, your first night among the lions.  
__Your beauty is a light that will always shine through._

It wasn't signed, but she recognized the hand easily enough — and who else knew of her trepidation and reluctance? She smiled, tracing the edge of one bloom lightly.

"Will you pin these in my hair, please, Sally — just at the back, there?" She gestured vaguely.

Her maid took the posey and busied herself fastening them neatly above Elizabeth's coiled knot of hair. "From young Mister Keen, I suppose," she said, with a disapproving sniff. "'E's got no business sending you flowers, Miss — and you _know _her ladyship won't like it."

Elizabeth picked up her reticule and turned around with a detached, remote look. "Mister Keen has been a good friend to me," she said coolly. "And it isn't really your place to say, is it?"

"No, Miss," Sally answered immediately, downcast and shamefaced. "I'm sorry, Miss."

Elizabeth sighed — she couldn't stand hurting anyone's feelings, least of all this rosy-cheeked girl who took such good care of her.

"Never mind, Sally," she said, wrapping a quick arm around the other girl. "Thank you for all your help."

Sally beamed. "You look just beautiful, Miss, even done up just simple-like. The fancy won't know what hit 'em."

Elizabeth took a deep, stabilizing breath and smiled back. "I hope you're right," she said.

And she did, she truly did, for while Aunt June would be busy trying to find a husband for her recalcitrant, perilously-close-to-on-the-shelf niece, Elizabeth would be looking for something else entirely.

Elizabeth would be looking for a murderer.

* * *

Raymond drummed his fingers absently against his thigh as his coach wended its way slowly through the crowded London streets, a nervous habit that he had never managed to get rid of. He pulled the letters out of his greatcoat pocket once more — the first from his friend and mentor Samuel Scott, asking for help; the second from Scott's man of affairs, notifying Raymond of Sam's death.

He once again cursed the late spring storms that had delayed the letters' delivery. He was still tired from the journey home, which landed him in London with the Season already begun, and far too late to help anyone.

He tucked them away again, frowning fiercely, determined to offer whatever help he can to Sam's twice-orphaned daughter, his memories of a curly-haired waif poignant and sweet. Just as he began to wonder if they would _ever _reach the Harrington's, the coach creaked to a halt.

Not waiting for the groom, he opened the door and swung out, stretching his cramped frame as he stood. The whispers started before he reached the door of the stately, brightly lit house — but he found them easy to ignore, despite his long absence.

He had far more important things to worry about than the wagging tongues of the _ton, _after all.

He paused in the entrance to the ballroom, standing at the top of the wide stairway to gaze out at the crowd of people. It was a ridiculous crush, of course, with so many people crammed into the space that it was amazing there was room to dance at all.

Then, with a shift in the assemblage that looked like a wave from above, he spotted her.

He wasn't sure how he recognized her, but he did, instantly, and thought strangely that he always would. Her dress was restrained — gown fashionable enough but not ornate; her hair drawn back into a simple knot at the nape of her neck, crowned with a cluster of flowers. He watched as she smiled charmingly at one of the gentlemen in her small crowd, then turned to engage another in conversation.

She might have been trying to be modest, understated, to escape notice, he thought. But among the fluttering birds and butterflies of the _ton, _her quiet grey dress and modest hairstyle made her shine like a pearl, like the glimmer of a star in a tumultuous sky.

He strode down the stairs and wove his way adeptly through the surging sea, nodding curtly once or twice to acquaintances either familiar or brave enough to speak to him, but not stopping. He didn't stop until he reached the small cluster that encircled Elizabeth Scott.

He aimed a charming smile at her companion and chaperone, the Dowager Lady Chester, and waited politely to be introduced.

* * *

Elizabeth was decidedly _not _enjoying herself.

The endless rounds of introductions, the false compliments, the insincere sympathy. Having to smile at strangers and make polite conversation. The whispers in the background behind the shield of manners. Aunt June, however, was in her element, prodding Elizabeth to dance with gentlemen she approved of, chattering with her cronies among the older generation.

If she wasn't ever left alone, how could she possibly accomplish anything useful?

She sipped the lemonade someone had brought her, more for something to do than from thirst, and resisted the urge to scream out loud.

But then, her attention was caught and sharpened by a new, excited note in the background hum of voices.

_…back in England at last…made an absolute fortune in the West Indies, I heard…such a tragedy when…of course, his mother was _French_, you know…_

She looked toward the entryway, curious to see who was causing all this fuss. She didn't recognize the man who was just now striding down the stairs and cutting through the swarm like a knife blade. _He isn't tall, _she thought, _but he projects an air of such confidence and strength that he _seems _large and commanding. _His dress was sharp and stark, everything an inky black but for his snow-white shirt and simply knotted cravat; his hair was cropped severely close to his scalp, increasing the impression of sleek power. He drew eyes like no other man in the room, and he appeared to be heading straight for her.

Did she know him, after all?

She brushed at her skirt a little, suddenly self-conscious, just as Aunt June started to speak.

_Well, imaging seeing you here, after all this time, my lord. Elizabeth, do allow me to introduce…_

She straightened in time to meet the full force of his smile, the candlelight glinting gold off the bristle of his hair.

And then, in a flash, she _did _know him, and her heart gave a hard _thump _that was part joy, part pain.

_"Red."_


	2. Chapter 2

_Red…_

Even as she said it, her voice just a breath of air, she realized her misstep — worse, she had extended a hand, as if in supplication.

Really, she had thought to touch him, and see if he was real.

"_Lord _Blackwood," Aunt June finished loudly, with stern emphasis and a sharp glare for Elizabeth.

She knew she was blushing horribly, her cheeks burning hot with embarrassment, but Raymond stepped in smoothly, taking her outstretched hand and bowing neatly over it.

"Not to worry, Lady Chester," he said, polished and polite. "Miss Scott and I are old friends."

She thrilled foolishly — _he remembers me_ — but managed to curtsey prettily and withdraw her hand.

"It's a great pleasure to see you again, my lord," she murmured, recovering at least _some_ social graces.

"The pleasure is all mine," he answered, and though he was just as remotely proper as she, there was a warmth to his tone that made him sound truly genuine.

Another buzz waved through the room; the music had changed, and dancers were pairing off.

"A waltz," Raymond said, with a glint in his eye. "How lovely. I'm sure you have permission, Miss Scott?"

"Of course, my lord," she said demurely. It had been one of the first things her aunt had done upon Elizabeth's decision to enter into Society, not wanting any "opportunities" to be lost.

"Is your next set spoken for?"

"No, my lord," she replied, without artifice now, taking his proffered arm eagerly.

"Delightful." He nodded amiably to the gaping group around them, and swept her away into the crowd of dancers.

When he put his hand on her waist, holding her close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body, she became dizzy with sensation. His scent was warm and spicy, completely unlike the perfume fashionable young men seemed to prefer. She forgot, for a moment, why she was there, forgot her sadness and anger, forgot everything but the new, intoxicating feelings.

* * *

When Raymond had recognized her from across the room, he'd thought her grown into a charmingly lovely young woman.

But then, when she'd seen him, somehow _known_ him, her cool elegance had transformed into a radiant beauty that took his breath away. Her old nickname for him had come so readily to her lips, her eyes shining; it had felt for an instant as if they were the only two people in the room.

He felt an irrational longing to take her out of this crowded room, to whisk her away from the greedy eyes of the _ton_ and really _talk_ to her. It was a surprising effort to go through the proper societal motions, instead.

But then Fate offered him a favour — a waltz.

He all but dragged her away from what now seemed like dozens of covetous, admiring eyes. She fit into his arms as if she had been made for them; she smelt enticingly of springtime.

He forgot, for a few shining moments, what had brought him there. She smiled at him, a real smile now, one that made her eyes sparkle and her entire face light up.

"You must be the very last person I'd ever thought to see tonight, Lord Blackwood," she said lightly. "I hadn't even heard you were in London."

"I only got into town yesterday evening," he answered honestly. "I was…most anxious to renew our acquaintance."

She pinked prettily, clearly pleased, and he was struck by a sudden, mad urge to kiss her. "You can go on calling me Red, if you like," he dazedly heard himself say. "At least when it's just the two of us."

Her smile somehow became even brighter. "We wouldn't want to shock Aunt June out of all countenance," she said. "But it really is terribly good to see you again…Red."

"Miss Scott, I–"

"You should at least call me Elizabeth, in return," she said, laughing.

He hesitated, reluctant to end her laughter, to eliminate that smile…but it had to be said. "Please accept my condolences, then, Elizabeth, on the loss of your father."

Her face fell at that, her clear blue eyes clouding over, brightness gone. "Thank you," she replied softly. "For all that it has been six months since we lost him, it still doesn't feel quite real."

"I truly am very sorry," he said gently. "Sam was a good friend to me."

"He loved you," she said simply, looking directly at him with a clear, steady gaze. "He was very proud of all your accomplishments."

This was saddening and heartening all at once, and it must have been clear in his expression, because, with great daring, she lifted her hand from his shoulder to touch his cheek, a fleeting brush of comfort too quick to see, almost too quick to feel. _Almost._

"Elizabeth," he said, oddly shaken. "I–"

"I wish we could sit together again," she said wistfully, interrupting him softly. "Like we used to, so long ago. I think it would be…a great comfort."

He thought that nothing could ease his cold and lonely soul like being able to hold her for real, and not just within the structured confines of a dance.

"Have you no one to console you, then, Lizzy?" The nickname came easily with the memories of that long-ago closeness, and he used it without thinking.

To his surprise and regret, her eyes filled and she faltered in her steps. She drew herself up in the next instant, though, blinking away her tears with a practiced effort and offering him a half-smile.

"I'm sorry, my lord," she said, taking refuge in formalities. "It's just…Papa was the only one who called me that for a long time."

"I'm the one who should be sorry," he said, cursing his thoughtlessness, arm around her waist tightening slightly. "I didn't think."

"It's all right, really," she said, with another deep breath. "It was only the surprise of it. I think…I think I might like hearing it again."

Their strangely intimate time was coming to an end already, he realized, the waltz in its final sweeping measures. He didn't fancy a country dance that would separate them and prevent real conversation.

"Would you care for a stroll on the terrace?" he heard himself say, with some astonishment.

"Aunt June would be terribly scandalized," she said solemnly, folding her hands primly in front of her, the picture of a proper young lady.

_Oh god._ He was about to apologize again, or laugh it off, or _something_ to regain his footing, but then she smiled again, real and full, this time with some mischief in it.

"I'd love to," she said.

* * *

Mrs. Harrington had arranged for lanterns to be placed along the balustrade, giving the stone terrace a warm glow. They weren't alone here, either, but the other couples taking a breath of air desired privacy as much as they did. Strolling along the length of the house with her small gloved hand tucked in his arm gave him an unexpected sense of peace and wellbeing.

"I need to make another apology, Elizabeth," he said quietly.

She looked at him, surprised, questioning.

"For not being here sooner." He answered her look heavily, his voice laden with regret. "For not being here when Sam died, or before. I didn't receive my letters until far too late."

"But that isn't your fault," she said earnestly. "You clearly came as quickly as you could."

Her simple faith, the faith of the child she had been, astonished him, and he put a hand over hers in silent acknowledgement.

"Sam wrote to me not long before he died. He was quite concerned."

"Was it about business?" she inquired. "I know it bothered him that he couldn't manage his affairs the way he was used to."

"His concerns were for _you,_ Lizzy," Red said gently. "He was worried over your future."

She made a slightly derisive _pfft_ of noise, surprising him again. "If he wanted me to be a proper miss and make an advantageous marriage like a good girl," she answered heatedly, her anger quick and bright as a flame, "then he should have left me in London with Aunt June instead of dragging me all over the globe with him!"

"And would that have made you happy, Lizzy?" he asked, amused by her petulance, by what sounded like an oft-repeated argument.

"Of course not," she snapped. "I _adored_ traveling with Papa and helping him in his work. Seeing all those marvelous places and discovering relics and antiquities." Her voice changed as she spoke, from frustration and pique to glowing enthusiasm. "Have you ever been to Egypt, my lord?"

"I haven't had the pleasure," he answered, intrigued by her sudden passion. "Worth the trip, is it?"

They had reached the far end of the terrace, and she stopped instead of turning, her face lit and animated.

"Oh, Red, you can't _imagine,"_ she answered, grasping his hand. "The desert is so _vast_ and _ancient, _with such a…a mysterious solemnity. It's brutally hot during the day, and seems rich and full, everything golden and shimmery. Then at night, so cold and stark and forbidding. It's no wonder at all there are so many stories of curses and mummies coming back from the dead," she added mischievously. "It's the perfect atmosphere for a dreadful tale of horror."

She wiggled her free fingers about to intimate spookiness, and he laughed aloud. "It sounds perfectly delightful," he said, smiling widely. "I'll have to try to get there and see for myself." She was absolutely entrancing.

She couldn't help but notice how the broad smile transformed his face, making it brighter and more open — almost like that of the boy she had once known.

"You really should," she said, withdrawing her hand, suddenly shy. "I _do_ think you'd like it."

"And now here you are in London," he said, taking her arm again and starting back. "Having the enjoyment of the Season and meeting all the eligible young men after all."

His smile was appropriately gone when she glanced up at him, but his eyes twinkled with merriment.

"That's Aunt June's doing," she said, with a disdainful sniff. "I only agreed because I–" She hesitated, halting her steps so he turned to face her again. "My lord — _Red,_ can I trust you? _Really_ trust you?"

The look of appeal in her lovely blue eyes tugged at him. "Your father asked me to look out for you," he said quietly. _Among other things,_ he thought wryly. "If you need anything, Lizzy, I'll do my utmost to help you."

She simply _glowed, _catching his breath and leaving him yearning to touch her, just for a moment.

"Oh, Red, _thank you! _It will be so much easier having you to poke around where I can't."

_Gods, _she was beautiful, almost ethereal against the night sky in her pearly gown, her creamy skin rich and inviting…and then his brain caught up with her.

"What on earth do you mean," he said ominously, "by 'poke around'?"

"Papa didn't die from his illness," she said earnestly. "He was murdered, I'm certain of it. I intend to find his murderer and bring them to justice."

_Good lord,_ he thought faintly. Of all the things she could have said, he certainly hadn't expected _that._

"Elizabeth," he said gently, stopping again and putting his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Your father was ill for a very long time–"

"But he just _wasn't_ as ill as all that," she said insistently. "I'm absolutely sure that there was something wrong about what happened."

"I know that it's difficult to accept this kind of loss." He tried again, squeezing her shoulders gently in sympathy.

"_Ooh!" _She wrenched away from him, her face creased in disappointment and disgust. "You sound _just_ like Aunt June. I thought…I thought _you_ would be different, I thought…"

Her eyes shimmered and he felt momentarily dreadful, a stabbing ache in his heart; he could have listened to her, at least, before talking some sense into her.

"Elizabeth, I am sorry," he tried. "I know how you must feel, but–"

"You don't know _anything_ about how I feel," she cried, anger and misery threatening to overwhelm her. "I don't even _know_ you, after all. I should never have confided in you — or in anyone. I don't need your help, _my lord, _I can do this on my own."

She pulled herself upright, her face once again wearing that cool society mask. "I am terribly sorry, Lord Blackwood, for overstepping. You can be certain that it won't happen again."

She turned on her heel and stalked off, heading for the comparative safety of the ballroom. He stood frozen and mute, watching her slim form disappear into the night. He felt, oddly, much lonelier than he generally did.

And his spirit quailed at the thought of this high-spirited, beautiful creature, romping recklessly through the _ton,_ looking for a killer.

Something would have to be done.


	3. Chapter 3

Elizabeth hesitated in the hallway outside the breakfast room. She'd managed to avoid questions and prodding from Aunt June the previous evening by claiming a headache and going straight to bed upon arriving home. She knew, however, that there would be an interrogation at breakfast, and she wasn't really ready for it.

Aunt June, of course, was already seated and eating when Elizabeth entered the room — as she was every day, no matter how early Elizabeth managed to rise. She sometimes wondered if the other woman slept at all.

She managed to keep her heartfelt sigh on the inside as she walked to the sideboard to pour a cup of tea.

"Good morning, Aunt."

"Ah, Elizabeth." Aunt June smiled in welcome across the table as Elizabeth took her seat. "How are you feeling this morning, my dear?"

"Much better, thank you, Aunt," Elizabeth said. "I believe I was merely overtired."

"I'm glad to hear that," the older woman replied, then her expression settled into something more serious. "You left the ballroom last night with Lord Blackwood."

The word _unchaperoned_ hung in the air, although it remained unsaid. Elizabeth refrained from rolling her eyes with some difficulty.

"We stepped briefly onto the terrace for a breath of air," she explained. "Lord Blackwood wished to express his condolences."

A slight alteration of actual events, perhaps, but one that should forestall a scolding and a lecture on proprieties. Indeed, June's expression softened almost immediately.

"That was very kind of his lordship," she remarked. She hesitated a moment, then continued. "I was surprised that you recognized him so easily, Eliza — after all, you were quite a small child the last time the two of you met."

That last seemed to have a touch of a question to it, as if June was wondering if there was something that she didn't know, but should.

"That's true," Elizabeth agreed. "But he and Papa kept up a lively correspondence always, and Papa spoke of him often. I don't think I could have forgotten him, even had I wanted to."

June seemed to accept this, although it didn't really explain how Elizabeth had known him so easily, by sight alone. She herself had no explanation, so it was just as well that the question remained unasked.

"He seems to be doing well," June said thoughtfully, distracted from her questions. "Poor man, he withdrew from Society completely after he lost his wife and child. It was widely thought he'd never return to Town."

June's words reminded Elizabeth of something she'd forgotten; of the tragedy in Blackwood's life. She remembered the tersely worded, yet still emotional letter that Sam had received after the tragic event. For a long time, his letters had been short and somehow dull, as if the fever that took the lives of his loved ones had taken the life from him, as well.

She also remembered, with a flush of regret, how she had thrown his sympathy back in his face the previous evening — if anyone could have any idea how she was feeling now, it was he. She wished she could track him down that very instant to apologize for her hasty words.

Since such a thing was patently impossible, she had to content herself with a silent promise to do so the very next time she encountered him.

* * *

She waited for Tom in the study, taking some pleasure in sitting at her papa's desk, surrounded by his things. She thought she could still smell a hint of his pipe tobacco in the air; it made her smile wistfully. She lost herself in reminiscences, enough so that when Tom came in, the _click_ of the door quite startled her.

"Miss Scott," the young man said, striding forward quickly to greet her. "If I may say, you make a fair morning much lovelier."

She laughed at him as he bowed low over her hand.

"Don't be stuffy with me, Tom, I beg of you. I had quite enough of company manners last night."

He was grinning at her when he rose, the customary mischief back in his bright blue eyes. "Don't tell me your first night out was dull," he said, with mock surprise.

"Interminable," she replied, rolling her eyes expressively. "We went to _three_ parties, Tom, and I declare there cannot be a single person in the entire _ton_ with an individual thought in their head."

"I'm sure they were one and all merely struck dumb by your beauty," he teased.

"What utter nonsense," she scoffed. "Simply a pack of absolute bores, I assure you. Oh," she continued, thinking of something, "thank you so much for the posey, Tom. It added the perfect touch."

"A mere token," he replied — but he looked extremely pleased. "Since I could not be by your side in person."

"It would have been nice to have a friend with me," she said, with an answering smile. "Although, I _did_ run into an old friend of Papa's at the Harrington's — he's back in town unexpectedly, and sought me out there."

"That must have been a welcome relief," Tom offered, but his tone had cooled.

She really must remember that Tom tended to be touchy about her mentioning other friends, preferring the brief times they were able to spend together be kept for just the two of them. She couldn't afford to alienate him — not if he was to be her sole ally in her quest.

"It was just a brief meeting," she said quickly. "A friendly face, that's all. May I ask — did you manage to bring the things we spoke about last week?"

Tom frowned now, clearly reluctant. "I wish you'd reconsider your plans, Elizabeth," he said earnestly. "Or at least postpone them until I am able to accompany you."

"Two people would attract far more attention than just me," she said quickly. The last thing she wanted to do was wait. "I intend to be just a part of the background, completely unworthy of notice."

Tom handed her the satchel he carried with a sigh. "I don't like it," he said. "You could get hurt."

"I'll be _fine,"_ she insisted. "Honestly, you worry more than Aunt June."

He laughed at that, some of the brightness coming back into his expression. "I can't help it," he said. "I really don't think you have the faintest idea how vulnerable you are in the city. I believe your time abroad has given you a false sense of security. Things are much different here, you know. Just…be very careful, will you?"

She rolled her eyes at him, sparkling with laughter. "Yes, Tom, I'll be careful," she parroted.

"And let me know how it goes — I'll try to stay until you get back, but if I can't, you must send me a message."

She relented — his concern was so genuine, and she knew her plans were not, in fact, without risk. "I will," she promised, reaching out and squeezing his hand briefly. "Thank you, Tom."

She rushed out of the study then, eager to get on with things. Tom watched her go, worry etched on his face.

* * *

Raymond strolled along the line of stalls at Tattersall's. His mind wandered miles away from his appointed task — finding a mount for this time spent in Town. Since the previous evening, he had not been able to shake his encounter with the lovely Elizabeth Scott from his mind.

Her luminous beauty, her slender grace, her genuine enthusiasm. Her flashing anger when he'd disappointed her. She was an enchantingly mercurial creature.

He meant to call on her soon, talk to her, try to understand why she was so convinced that Sam's death had been unnatural. But to do so immediately after singling her out at his first rout would cause entirely too much talk. So he had to wait a day or two, and try to banish the image of her from his brain in the meantime.

A quiet cough from behind his shoulder drew him from his reverie. "Well, then," he said, turning to his companion. "Do you see a likely beast?"

Dembe indicated the stall on the right with a tip of his head. "The Arabian there looks well-built," he said. "And solid-tempered, as well."

Raymond walked closer to look the stallion over. It did appear to be a fine animal, and he appreciated once more the intelligence and insight of the man beside him. Not merely a companion, but a friend. Although he had once worked for Raymond, he had quickly become something more of a partner. Together for many years, Dembe had been pleased to accompany Raymond back to England.

"A likely specimen, to be sure," he said aloud. "But I think I'd like to wander a bit more before making any decisions."

They walked on, stopping occasionally to greet an acquaintance. Raymond wasn't keen on social chatter, in particular, but he did recognize the value of maintaining at least moderately friendly terms with his peers. He was also in a better mood than he'd been in the previous night, more settled and enjoying the open air, the scents and sounds of the horses. The charming incongruity of fine gentlemen parading alongside the grubby stable boys that dashed here and there.

One such specimen caught his eye — whether due to the layers of dirt that coated him, or the way he stood still, lingering behind a pair of gentlemen, he couldn't say. Since he recognized one of the men in question, he strode their way to say hello and get a better look.

"Pardon the interruption, gentlemen," he said smoothly, with his most polished smile. "Cooper, it's a pleasure to see you again." From the corner of his eye, he noticed the boy stiffen — he was tall, for stable work, and Raymond wondered how old he was.

"Reddington!" Cooper exclaimed, shaking hands enthusiastically. "Good grief, it's been years! I hadn't heard you were in Town."

Curiously, as Cooper started speaking, the lad turned on his heel and dashed away, looking oddly graceful in flight. A twinge of recognition nagged at the edge of his mind, and it was only a nudge from Dembe that recalled him to the moment and made him realize he'd entirely missed the introduction to Cooper's friend.

Giving himself a hard mental shake, he enjoyed a short conversation with the two men. Cooper recommended a yearling bay a little further down the row, so he headed that way to have a look. Before he saw the horse, however, he spotted what he was certain was the same boy, following a foppish-looking fellow down the row.

There was something about the lad, beyond the dirt and strange behaviour. His clothes were ill-fitting in an odd way — both too large and too small, in various places. Raymond watched as the boy slunk behind the parading fop, pausing when he paused, keeping to the shadows of the stalls.

He sighed inwardly — regardless of the boy's identity, and the need for coin he surely had, Raymond could not just watch another gentleman be robbed before his eyes. He caught up to the pair in a few long strides, and quietly grasped the boy's shoulder in a firm grip. He was shockingly slender in Raymond's hand, and Raymond made up his mind to be kind.

Turning the lad around as he struggled, fiercely but futilely, Raymond looked down past the brim of the woollen cap to meet astonishingly familiar cornflower blue eyes.

"_Lizzy?"_


	4. Chapter 4

"_Lizzy?"_

A choked exclamation that he only _just_ managed to avoid bellowing at the top of his lungs.

She — for it was, indeed, _she,_ under a generous smear of mud — opened her mouth as if to protest, then appeared to think better of it.

"Good choice," he snapped. He spun sharply on his heel, dragging her with him. He jerked his head in Dembe's direction to indicate they were leaving ahead of schedule. "There's no point trying to deny it — it's blazingly clear who you are."

She kept her mouth shut, lips pressed together in a thin line, scowing fiercely, and pulled her cap down further to hide her eyes. He, too, kept his silence until they reached the hansom he'd hired.

Nodding to Dembe to join the coachman on the box, he boosted Lizzy inside and hauled himself in after her, slamming the door shut behind him. They sat on opposite benches, glaring at each other, until they were moving off down the street, and the clatter of the wheels offered a shield for conversation.

"Have you," he began, keeping his calm with a deliberate, excruciating politeness, "completely lost your mind?"

She gaped at him for a long moment, then reddened with fury. "_Me?"_ she snarled. "How _dare_ you…_manhandle_ me in that appalling fashion?"

He barked a laugh of disbelief. "You are extremely fortunate a little light handling by someone friendly is the worst that happened to you," he retorted, unable to temper himself any longer. "Do you have _any_ idea…"

"No one noticed me at _all_ except _you,"_ she raged back. "Why were _you_ looking so closely at the stable boys?"

He took _that_ insult without flinching — it wasn't as if he hadn't wondered the same thing. "Only you, I assure you, Miss Scott," he returned evenly. "There were numerous aspects of your person that demanded a closer look."

"You had no right to just haul me off, regardless," she said sulkily.

He rubbed a hand over his head in exasperation. "Do you have any idea," he repeated, "how you _look?_ I can see every inch of you in those appalling clothes. If you thought to hide your femininity behind grubby breeches and a loose shirt, let me assure you — you failed utterly." The sleek curves of her were _still_ a distraction he didn't need.

"No one looked at me twice the entire hour I was there," she insisted, but she sounded slightly mollified in response to his vehemence. She scratched absently at a patch of flaking dirt on her cheek with her grimy sleeve. "The fancy don't look at the help, Red."

"And what about the other lads, hmm?" She looked startled at that suggestion, and he nodded in grim satisfaction. "It was only a matter of time until something happened that you wouldn't have been able to escape," he admonished.

Her efforts to wipe her face had only succeeded in spreading the muck around, and he offered her his pristine handkerchief with a resigned sigh. He watched her as she scrubbed at herself, trying _not_ to notice the way the rough linen shirt pulled against her slim waist, the curve of her breast.

"What on earth are you playing at, anyway?" He had to say something, anything, to distract himself.

She emerged from behind the cloth, her face red from her attentions and her expression outraged. "I'm not _playing_ at anything! I was _investigating."_

_Oh good god,_ he thought, horrified. _What seemed like a bad situation is in fact much, much worse than I imagined._

"Investigating?" he said faintly.

"Men talk a great deal more frankly when there are no women about," she said. "And since I can't quite figure out how to get into one of the clubs, I thought Tattersall's would be a good place to start."

Was there no end at all to the nerve of this outrageous girl?

"You are _not,_ under any circumstances, to even _think_ about going to a gentlemen's club," he said firmly. The mere idea of it made him quail in his boots.

"I need to listen to their conversations," she insisted. "Someone, sometime, is sure to say something about Papa."

Sympathy swept over him in a reluctant wave. "Oh, Lizzy," he murmured, a heavy sigh, reaching across to touch her smeared pink cheek gently.

"I _must_ find out the truth," she said, leaning forward in her keen earnestness.

An enticing triangle of clean, creamy skin flashed at the loose neck of her shirt. He forced his gaze away with some difficulty and met her eyes.

"All right," he said, defeated. He had come back to London for the express purpose of looking out for her, after all. "If it means this much to you, I'll do what I can to help you."

She beamed at him. "Oh, Red, _thank you,"_ she cried, and impulsively threw herself across the hansom to embrace him happily.

His breath caught at the feel of her slim, warm body pressed against his; his arms went around her by instinct. She was clearly lacking a number of the layers a lady normally armored herself in, and the thin, worn boy's clothes she wore decidedly did _not_ make up the difference. Her breasts were lush against his chest, and she exuding an intoxicating warmth that he instinctively wanted more of. She smelled faintly of some sort of herb, green and fresh, and his body hardened, quickly and painfully, in response to the overwhelming sensory input. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, even as she pulled away, embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry," she said, brushing hastily at the wide swath of dirt she'd left on his waistcoat.

Having her hands on him didn't help his…situation one bit. He drew them gently away and managed to smile at her.

"Never mind," he said. "It will brush out easily enough. Now," he continued, surreptitiously adjusting the folds of his coat, "how long before you must be at home?"

"Oh, I can be away another hour, maybe two," she answered breezily. "Aunt believes I am shopping with a friend this morning. I wasn't," she continued, with an amused glance at him, "at Tattersall's for as long as I thought I might be."

"You do realize, Lizzy, that that is exactly the sort of information you shouldn't be sharing with a strange man?" As enchanted as he was with this bewildering young woman, he felt the need to guide her, to steer her clear of the dangers she seemed utterly unaware of.

She merely rolled her eyes at him. "Of course I do," she said, more amused than ever. "But obviously, I can trust _you._ Or were you planning to drag me off and ravish me, my lord?"

He was both touched by her trust, and infuriated by her teasing. _Little does she know, _he thought darkly, _just how much I long to do exactly that. _He had the sense that this type of duality would be typical in their relationship, and sighed again.

"Of course not," he said, albeit a tad reluctantly. "I am honoured to hold your trust, Elizabeth. I was, however, going to suggest you come home with me."

She stared at him, apparently finally bereft of words from the shock of such an improper suggestion. He shrugged, then grinned at her. She thought he looked sly as a cat, and the thought made her smile back.

"No one will recognize you — you needn't worry about your reputation," he pointed out. "And we shall be able to have a much more private conversation than we would otherwise. I have a…quiet household."

"All right," she said, feeling ridiculously daring.

And as he rapped on the roof and issued brief instructions to his coachman, she let herself enjoy the thrill that ran through her, and the quickening of her heartbeat.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It wasn't a long drive to Blackwood House, and there wasn't any further conversation. The silence, though, was companionable rather than awkward, and Raymond found he rather enjoyed it.

He carefully took no notice of Elizabeth sneaking interested glances at him from under her borrowed cap; he waited until she was looking out the window to stare at her in return. Even mud-streaked, in her rough, ill-fitting boy's clothes, she was beautiful. He wondered idly if she found him at all attractive, or if she looked at him and saw an old man — a peer of her father rather than of herself.

Thankfully, they arrived at the house before his mind could get any further away from him. As was his habit, he didn't wait for the coachman, but opened his own door and swung out, eager to be upright and in the fresh air. He heard Elizabeth shift along the seat behind him, and turned back with a broad smile.

"Not so hasty, my dear," he said charmingly. "Stable lads don't come in through the front door."

She gaped at him as he shut the hansom door gently in her face. His mood brightened, he was grinning as he looked up at Dembe on the box.

"Bring the boy in through the mews, would you?"

Dembe nodded impassively, but his eyes glimmered with humour. Raymond climbed the wide front steps and entered the house, pausing to leave his hat, gloves, and coat in the care of his housekeeper. He went straight to his library, the room in which he felt the most comfortable, the most at home.

He was safely ensconced behind his desk when Elizabeth came in, surprisingly subdued. She sat primly in the hard chair opposite, her ankles crossed neatly despite her breeches.

"So," he said, not quite sure where to start.

"May I just say something?" She looked up and met his eyes with unusual directness.

"Of course," he replied, curious.

"I owe you an apology, my lord," she said quietly. "I meant to give it to you the instant I saw you again, but then…well…" She flushed prettily, but didn't look away. "Events got away from me a little."

He laughed aloud at that, and her rosy blush deepened. "I can't think of anything you've done to offend me personally," he said politely.

"The way I spoke to you last night was completely unmerited," she replied, a little anxious now. "I…I'm afraid I forgot, in the moment, that you have suffered your own difficult losses, and spoke to me with the voice of experience. If anyone _could_ understand the way I'm feeling, I believe it would be you."

His face had closed over while she spoke, and the distance bothered her immensely. She shifted forward, wanting to be closer, her expression earnest.

"Please forgive me, Raymond. I spoke in anger, and it was careless of me."

His face cleared again, though his eyes remained dark, and he smiled at her. "There's no need, really," he replied. "I know you didn't intend to wound."

"I would never purposefully hurt you," she said, more earnest than ever. "I…well, I am sorry, regardless."

"Then of course, I accept," he answered. He did wonder what she had started to say, but knew it would be unpardonably rude to ask.

"Now then," he continued, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. "Why don't you tell me about your father."

She sighed. "We came back to London about a year ago, due to Papa's poor health." Her eyes pled with him for patience. "I _know_ he was ill, but he _wasn't_ about to die, Red, I'm positive. He was having quite a good spell when…when it happened."

Raymond frowned. "It was trouble with his lungs, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she said. "A 'wasting disease', the doctors said. He coughed a great deal, and I know it pained him."

"Was he bedridden, at the end?"

"No!" She leaned in, propping her elbows on the desk. "He got up every day and worked, just as always."

"Is it possible," Raymond asked gently, "that he was working to keep things as normal as he could, for your sake?"

Elizabeth shook her head stubbornly. "He couldn't have pretended that well, honestly, not if he was so very ill. He spent time with Mister Oates — his man of affairs — and time with me, cataloguing the artifacts we brought back. He was even going to his club a few times a week."

"And when he died?"

"He was alone in the study," she said, with a small, wistful smile. "He liked to read there, in the afternoon."

"Was there any indication of anything amiss? Anything out of the ordinary?"

"Not exactly."

Raymond just looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

"There wasn't anything in the room that didn't belong there," she admitted. "And it was always a bit of a mess, so it was difficult to tell if anything was out of place or not. But Papa…he didn't look right. He looked so _angry,_ as if he'd been arguing with someone. _And _his blotter was completely clean." This last with some triumph.

"Elizabeth," Raymond began, and she scowled at him fiercely.

"I know, I _know_ it sounds ridiculous and it's not evidence of anything, but at the same time, it _is._ Why should he look like that if he'd been alone? And Papa _never_ remembered to change the blotter, I always did it. And I hadn't done it yet, that week."

Raymond stood and moved around the desk to lean on the edge of it, facing her. She refused to look at him, scowling at her knees, her eyes hidden by the brim of her cap. He sighed, then reached over and tugged the grubby cloth from her head.

She looked up then, startled, her eyes bright with emotion. Pins dropped away with the yank of the cap, so that her rich, dark hair tumbled over her shoulders and down her back in riotous waves.

His breath caught in his throat at the sheer loveliness of it. Without thinking, he stroked it back from her face, marveling at the silky feel. He speared his fingers through the heavy mass, entranced. The sensation was indescribable, and he indulged in it shamelessly, tipping her head back as he did.

Her face had changed from surprised to dazzled, her rosy lips slightly parted. He started to lean in, eager for a taste of her, his body humming…when her indrawn breath reminded him where he was and what he was doing — or, rather, _should_ be doing. The strength of his desire shocked him, and required an immense effort to wrench back. With one final stroke, he tucked her hair behind her ear. She blushed a little, but leaned into his hand, appealingly.

"You knew him best," Raymond said. "If you say it wasn't right, I believe you."

"Thank you, she said quietly. "That means a great deal to me."

"So," he said, letting his arms drop to his sides, and gripping the edge of the desk in an effort to keep his hands to himself. "Did you learn anything this morning?"

"No, not about Papa," she said, scowling in disappointment. "I _did_ learn," she continued, her face becoming mischievous in a flash, "how wonderfully _freeing_ breeches are. I could _run, _really run, without falling over or losing my breath."

"Don't get any ideas," he returned, a mock threat heavy in his tone. "And that brings me to my next question — wherever did you get these clothes?"

"A friend," she answered cautiously.

He raised an eyebrow, sardonic. "Do you have many male friends amongst the servants?"

Elizabeth reddened further. "No, of course not," she snapped. "Tom isn't a servant, he's a clerk for Mister Oates — Papa's man, you know. He spent so much time arranging all the papers for Papa's estates that we all became quite friendly. He still comes often, to sort through things for Mister Oates. They're working to tie up all the investments and arrange things properly for Aunt June and I."

A frisson of alarm shivered down Ramond's spine as she spoke. "Tom?" he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral. "Would that be Thomas Keen, perchance?"

"Why, yes," she replied, startled. "How on earth did you know that?"

He couldn't tell her now that it was that self-same young man about whom Sam had written to him, worried over the nature of this very friendship, and the young man's volatile nature. He'd have to at least meet the boy first, and evaluate things for himself.

"I believe Sam mentioned him once or twice," he said, prevaricating just a bit. "And so, this young friend of yours was happy to lend you some old clothes and let you go traipsing around the city?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes at him, exasperated. "No one _lets_ me do anything — I have a mind of my own, you know. And as a matter of fact, he took quite a lot of convincing. He's waiting for me," she remembered suddenly, "to make sure I get home safely."

"How chivalrous," Raymond murmured, attempting to sound genuine instead of resentful.

"He's been a very good friend to me," she answered, only a little defensive.

Raymond smiled at her, mind ticking. "It's a great gift to have good friends that you can count on," he said mildly. "Perhaps, in time, you'll be able to lean on me, as well."

She flushed a little, and smiled back. "I already know I can count on you, Red."

His smile broadened; he couldn't help it. "I'll need a little time to think about the best way to proceed." He stood and extended a hand to her. "We should get you on your way before your absence causes any trouble. Perhaps I could call on you tomorrow?"

"I'm sure we would be happy to receive you, my lord," she answered politely, but her eyes sparkled.

And just as he bundled her into the hansom so Dembe could get her home, she boldly pressed a swift kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you, Red," she murmured, sweet and soft.

He could feel her kiss, warming him, for the rest of the day.


	5. Chapter 5

Elizabeth slipped easily from the mews into the kitchen, sliding smoothly along the wall to try and avoid being seen. The kitchen was a busy hub of activity, and she managed to move quickly and quietly enough that she made it to the back staircase without incidence.

Overly pleased with herself, she forgot to pause and listen for footsteps on the stairs. And so it was, perhaps, inevitable that about halfway up she ran into Sally, who gave a shriek of surprise and dismay, and dropped her basket of linens.

_Thank goodness it's only Sally, _Elizabeth thought, as she yanked off her cap and shushed the other girl with a tinge of desperation. _She'll keep my secrets. _

"Sally, do _hush, _it's only me, don't get upset."

Sally blinked at her, frozen in startlement. "M-Miss Elizabeth? What on earth…?"

"Never mind right now," Elizabeth said, picking up the basket and handing it back to the maid. "I'll explain everything, but not _here. _If you could please bring some fresh hot water to my room, we can talk there."

Whatever Sally's thoughts might be, she nodded obediently with a small, awkward bob. "Yes, miss, of course."

She snatched up the few pieces of fallen laundry, and the two girls turned sideways to squeeze past one another, and then trotted off on their separate ways. It was just as well, really, Elizabeth reflected, as she sped off to her room. She'd need help getting properly dressed, and her hair was a mess.

She discovered just how much of a mess she was when she entered her bedroom and caught a glimpse in the mirror that made her laugh out loud. Her hair, once again free of the cap, was a loose and tousled mass of tangles; her face, despite her best efforts with poor Red's handkerchief, was still streaked liberally with the mud she'd applied as part of her disguise.

And even so, even in her state of complete dishabille…there had been that long, heavy moment, when Red had stood over her, his hands threaded into her hair, when she'd thought he might _kiss _her. The look on his face had been…she shivered in response even now at just the _memory _of that look.

Even when the moment passed, she couldn't shake the heaviness of it. The warm ball of _something _that had lodged inside her and made it extremely difficult to continue their conversation as if nothing had happened. That had made her fly in the face of all manners and propriety and touch her lips to his cheek.

She'd just needed to touch him in return, just once. She didn't understand how just a second's glance could throw her into such turmoil. It wasn't as if she was some fresh-faced innocent, after all.

She thought, a bit dreamily, of her last kiss, a precious goodbye from sweet Femi, the son of their dragoman on Sam's final dig in Egypt. Almost from the moment they met, she had lost herself to Femi's deep, dark eyes; had listened, enraptured, when he walked her around their campsite in the evenings, telling her stories of constellations, of long-dead kings. Only when they'd been leaving had he worked up the courage to kiss her, a soft, sweet press of lips that had filled her heart and made her stomach flutter.

Sitting down now to pull off her rough stockings, she relived that shining moment — up until today, the most romantic of her life. The thought struck her that a kiss from Raymond Reddington would be an entirely different experience.

She was flushed just _thinking _about it, the room too hot, that mysterious warmth back in her belly. Thankfully, Sally came bustling in then, a basin of steaming water in her arms. She immediately started fussing, and Elizabeth's wayward thoughts were diverted by their conversation.

But as she washed herself clean, as she was laced into her dress and then sat while Sally did her hair up, as she excused her disguise as a whim to go out alone — her mind kept flashing back to that one, wordless moment. She couldn't help but wonder if, the next time they found themselves alone, he might really kiss her.

And if she would lose her heart to him again, as simply and easily as she had the first time.

* * *

Dressed again, wearing her pelisse and carrying her hat for verisimilitude, Elizabeth crept quietly down to the first floor. She opened and closed the heavy front door, just in case, and laid her hat down on the foyer table.

Satisfied that she had successfully disguised her morning's outing, she walked through to the study, taking a peek inside for Tom. He was gone, though — she supposed he had either needed to attend another appointment, or simply run out of things to do that gave him an excuse to wait for her.

Since the house was quiet, she sat down at the desk and penned a brief note, assuring him that she had returned home safely and that her adventure had passed without incident. There was no point trying to explain her run-in with Blackwood, and it certainly wouldn't do for anyone to know she'd been to his home unescorted.

She sealed and addressed her missive, then rang for Jensen. The butler appeared with his usual alacrity, assured her that her note would be dispatched immediately, and swept off with message in hand and her pelisse over his arm.

Elizabeth felt quite smug, overall, about the success of her first quest. True, she'd been caught out, but that minor issue had resulted in her obtaining a valuable ally. Really, it was almost as if she'd planned it that way.

She made her way upstairs to the drawing room, where, as she'd expected, Aunt June was sharing a cup of tea and a cheerful round of gossip with her dearest friend, Lady Browning. After the usual polite greetings, Elizabeth sat neatly on the settee and wondered how to share her news.

As it turned out, Aunt June made it simple by inquiring about her shopping trip — was Meera in good health, had Elizabeth found anything to purchase, had they run into anyone they knew?

"Actually," Elizabeth said, careful to sound only mildly interested, "we did meet Lord Blackwood in Bond Street. He indicated he might be inclined to call on us tomorrow afternoon."

"Did he, indeed?" June said thoughtfully. "How very nice of him." She eyed Elizabeth appraisingly and Elizabeth tried not to squirm.

"The Earl of Blackwood?" Lady Browning exclaimed. "He only just returned to London, and he's planning to call on you? Perhaps he has…a special interest?"

Her eyes gleamed with keen delight in this tidbit of news, and her voice was so suggestive that Elizabeth blushed in spite of herself.

"I'm sure the Earl is merely reintroducing himself to Society," she demurred.

Aunt June, for a wonder, supported Elizabeth with a cool smile. "The Earl is an old family friend," she said. "It's only natural that he would want to pay his respects now that he's back in London. All the same," she continued, before Elizabeth even had time to breathe a quiet sigh of relief, "you should make sure your blue muslin is clean, dear — it brings out your eyes beautifully."

Elizabeth thought woefully that she might be in for some matchmaking, after all.

* * *

Raymond twitched rather more than usual as his carriage wound its way to the Scott home the next afternoon. He told himself that it was perfectly normal to be a bit apprehensive when visiting such an unpredictable young lady. The only thing that one _could _expect of Elizabeth seemed to be that it would not be what one _should _be able to expect from a young Society miss.

Of course, he reminded himself firmly, she was hardly a young miss at all, verging on spinsterhood at twenty-four and only coming to London the past year, never mind out in Society. Part of him wondered what on earth Samuel Scott had been thinking; the rest of him was thoroughly pleased with her.

Willful and unpredictable she might be, but she was also intelligent and quick-witted, well-mannered and well-spoken, confident and self-assured. And, of course, possessed of an unconventional beauty that would surely–

He forcibly halted his thoughts before they ran away from him completely. Age notwithstanding, her vivacious prettiness, lively friendliness, and appealing sweetness — not to mention the comfortable income Sam had surely settled on her — would certainly guarantee her a generous quota of suitors.

Such a woman would have no interest in a widower old enough to be her father. The affectionate gestures she had bestowed on him could easily be attributed to a residual childhood fondness, combined with the vein of impulsiveness in her nature.

And he wasn't looking for a wife, anyway.

Before his thoughts could tangle any further, the carriage lurched to a halt. _Thank goodness, _he thought, as he swung down and strode to the door ahead, knocking briskly and straightening his coat.

He really must try harder to keep himself in order.

The door was promptly opened by a hatchet-faced butler of suitably somber expression and impeccably neat attire.

"Blackwood," Raymond said shortly, proffering his card. "For Lady Chester."

"Very good, sir," the butler intoned solemnly. "I shall see if her ladyship is at home."

He ushered Raymond politely into the foyer and whisked away, leaving Raymond to twitch a little more as he waited. Luckily for him and his wandering thoughts, it was only a few moments before the butler reappeared with a polite smile affixed to his face.

"Please do follow me, my lord."

Raymond was led upstairs and left at the drawing room entrance with a delightfully gloomy, "Lord Blackwood, miss."

It was Elizabeth who rose from the sofa to greet him, and he simply forgot to breathe for a long moment.

She was wearing a dress of cornflower blue that enriched her creamy skin and reflected in her bright eyes. It occurred to him that this was the first time he'd seen her in a _colour, _and it elevated her reserved prettiness to an astonishing beauty.

She was smiling at him as his presence somehow made her day complete, perfect, and something lonely inside him responded eagerly to the show of warmth.

He stepped forward, stricken and wordless, and took her offered hand.

"Lord Blackwood," she said, a touch primly. "How lovely to see you."

"Miss Scott," he managed, his voice hoarse.

He bent over her hand, intending merely a swift courtesy, but the herbal scent of her caught at him. He turned her hand in his, and, gently but deliberately, pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist, letting himself taste her ever so lightly. He heard her slight gasp with pure satisfaction, and stood to see her eyes widened and cheeks flushed.

_"Red," _she said.

"The pleasure is mine," he finished softly.

All his self-admonishing thoughts and fine resolutions seemed to have dissolved into dust around him, leaving nothing behind but a fierce desire. The taste of her, bright and lovely, lingered on his tongue, and it took all of his formidable self-control not to grasp her face in his hands and devour her.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he offered her a charming smile. "Shall we sit?"

"Oh," she replied, even more flustered by her own loss of manners. "Of course. Please do have a seat, my lord." She gestured to the sofa and they sat down together, a modest cushion of space between them.

"And where might your aunt be this afternoon?" he asked, thinking — possibly for the first time in his life — that a chaperone was an absolute must.

"I believe she is just consulting her maid about her gown for the theatre this evening," Elizabeth said faintly, seemingly unable to look at him.

"Then…then we should speak about your father while we're alone," he said quickly, grasping the distraction with both hands.

That seemed to bring her back to herself. "Have you thought of anything?" she asked eagerly. "I'm sure that at least _some _of Papa's associates belong to your club."

"I'm sure they do," Raymond answered. "Unfortunately, I've been out of the country for so long, I don't know who Sam might have been doing business with that last year. Do you?"

She frowned. "No," she said, then her expression turned thoughtful. "But I'm sure I can find out."

He wasn't sure that he liked the sound of that. "Your young friend?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.

She looked up at him through her eyelashes, a bit shy and entirely appealing. "He really _is _a friend, you know," she ventured. "We're not…I mean…" she stumbled to an awkward halt.

He smiled again, her nervousness somehow making him calm. "I'm glad," he heard himself say. "Elizabeth, I–"

"Goodness me, Lord Blackwood, I'm so sorry." Aunt June bustled into the room, cutting him off and assuming control over the conversation with the effortless skill of long experience.

He stood and bowed, greeting the dowager with a bland smile. The rest of his visit was spent in polite pleasantries and banal conversation about mutual acquaintances and Society happenings. Elizabeth kept surprisingly quiet, watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read. If Aunt June noticed, she did a remarkably good job of hiding it.

He wanted more time with Elizabeth, had never been so annoyed with Society's restrictive conventions. He wanted _her, _he realized, regardless of how foolish it might be. How could he possibly… She had mentioned the theatre.

They all rose when it was time for him to take his leave.

"Lady Chester, Elizabeth tells me the two of you are planning to attend the theatre this evening," he said. "Perhaps you'd allow me the great pleasure of escorting you?"

Lady Chester fairly _beamed. _

"I'm sure we would be most pleased to have your company, Lord Blackwood."

Satisfied, he made arrangements to call for them later and said his farewells. He kept his eyes on Elizabeth's face as he took her hand; her answering flush assured him that she was remembering the touch of his lips.

He could do this, he thought, determination sweeping over him. He could win the heart of this eminently desirable woman. He just needed time, and handily, she wanted time with him as well. They may not have the same goal, but there was no reason they couldn't both get what they wanted.

He savoured the sweet taste of her all the way home.


	6. Chapter 6

Elizabeth sat down at her dressing table, carefully sweeping her skirts out of the way. She looked in the mirror and evaluated herself objectively — or tried to. She was pretty enough, she thought, her complexion good, her hair thick and long, her eyes a pleasant clear blue.

_Why did she even care? _

She sighed as Sally came up behind her and started to brush out her hair. She knew why she cared — it was Red, haunting her thoughts, the touch of his lips _still _lingering at her wrist. She didn't want this, not the attention, not Society, not courtship, or marriage, or _any of it. _

And yet…she still wanted him to think well of her, and she couldn't shake off the feeling.

She looked at herself again, hating it more than a little. Her gown had made Aunt June frown, and name it too somber still. But Elizabeth thought the deep, midnight blue looked well on her, darkening her eyes and bringing out the roses in her cheeks.

Sally cleared her throat politely, so Elizabeth looked up to meet her eyes in the mirror.

"Are you certain that you don't want me to do a little… _something _with your hair, miss? If Lord Blackwood is escorting you, _everyone _will be looking your way."

Elizabeth hesitated, then sighed. She wanted him to look at her with that warmth in his eyes; to touch her in that coaxing way that made her shiver. Why was she trying to deny it, even to herself?

"Oh, very well," she said, trying to sound reluctant; trying not to blush. "If only to pacify Aunt June. Nothing ornate though, and do keep it out of my face."

She had no patience for the clusters of short curls that were currently fashionable, and absolutely refused to cut her hair.

"Yes, miss," Sally said, a little dolefully, and went to work with quick, deft fingers and hot tongs.

She was just finishing the pinning when they heard the knocker bang on the front door below. Sally held up a hand mirror so Elizabeth could see and approve her work. The steady girl had done a good job, Elizabeth thought — not so very different from her customary low knot, but pulled a little bit higher, curled and tucked into a neat pattern of twists.

"That's lovely, Sally, thank you," she said. "Would you fasten this for me, please?"

She held out a cameo on a thin gold chain — one of the few things she had of her mother's, she often wore it as her sole ornament. Toilette complete, Elizabeth stood and straightened her gown a bit nervously.

"You're beautiful, miss," Sally said loyally. "But I still think you should wear a corset, it–"

"Nonsense," Elizabeth interrupted cheerfully. "I enjoy breathing far too much to even consider it. You know I believe in Rational Dress, Sally." Her maid sighed, clearly disappointed with this show of common sense. "I'm wearing my chemise, and that's more than enough," Elizabeth continued firmly. "My gown isn't particularly low-cut, and I'm perfectly decent."

Sally sniffed. "As to that, miss, I–"

Elizabeth interrupted again with a laugh, her spirits fully restored by this habitual exchange. She gave Sally a warm kiss on the cheek.

"I'm afraid you'll never make a fashion plate of me, Sally, dear," she said. "Try not to mind too much."

She took up her reticule, gave herself time for two deep breaths, and headed for the stairs.

* * *

Alone in the drawing room, waiting, Raymond felt unaccountably awkward — and then ridiculous over feeling awkward. He tugged a little at his cravat, which, while still simpler than dictated by fashion, had been tied higher and tighter than usual at his valet's insistence.

Apparently, the theatre required only the best of presentations.

Thankfully, he wasn't waiting long before Aunt June swept into the room, her Societal armour of gleaming smile, sharp-edged fan, and sparkling jewels firmly in place. He put on his own politely charming smile and bowed with a click of his heels.

"You are the picture of elegance, Lady Chester," he offered.

"How delightful of you to pretend to notice me at all, Lord Blackwood," she replied. Her eyes shone with knowing amusement.

His smile became much more genuine, appreciating both her humour and her candor. "It's a pleasure to see you, nonetheless."

He was astonished to see the dowager grin widely. "Should I be inquiring after your intentions, my lord?"

He laughed aloud this time. If only he knew for certain what they were, he'd be happy to tell her. "I assure you, Lady Ch–"

His words dried up in the blink of an instant, the world stopping in the face of Elizabeth.

She stood in the doorway, her skirts gathered in one hand, a shy smile on her face. Her gown was of the darkest of blues, making her skin fairly glow in the candlelight, her features clean and clear. Her eyes were the deepest pools, beckoning to him. He took a step toward her in answer, then another, still strangely bereft. Her eyes widened, her lips parted slightly as she took in his expression.

He couldn't imagine what he looked like.

A small, polite cough from behind him brought him abruptly back into reality, back into himself. He managed a half-decent courtly bow, and offered Elizabeth his hand. Her face eased into a smile as she stepped into the room; placed her hand overtop his delicately.

"Elizabeth," he said, his voice low and rich. "You are…a vision. A diamond of the first water, to be sure."

She gave him a blinding smile that held a hint of surprise, her cheeks rosy with pleasure, as if she wasn't used to compliments. "You are too gracious, my lord," she answered, the picture of politeness.

How could she wear that demure facade when he was so lost? He wanted to snatch her up and lose himself in her, to absorb her sweetness, to drown, endlessly, forever. He felt more than slightly deranged by the overwhelming need. Thank heavens, they weren't alone, could hardly ever be alone.

Aunt June, with a blessed officiousness, took control of the situation with a smug smile, urging them out the door and into her well-appointed carriage. She kept the atmosphere light and friendly on the slow trek to Drury Lane, drawing Raymond into conversation with questions about his life in the West Indies.

He spun entertaining tales of hot sun, ships, and sand; of dense, humid pockets of strange and graceful trees; of sly business dealings that had to evade lurking pirates. As he spoke, he watched Elizabeth's face illuminate with fascinated interest. He remembered her glowing descriptions of Egypt, her love of traveling with her father.

And tucked away the potential weapon for when it might be needed.

* * *

Elizabeth found herself seated in her aunt's box beside one of the _ton's _biggest catches, and couldn't imagine how it had happened. Aunt June was sequestered on the other side of the box with Lady Browning and a third crony, Lady Ashbury, all of them full of fresh gossip and chattering away cheerfully.

Leaving absolutely no doubt what Lord Blackwood was doing with them. Leaving Elizabeth to try and ignore the mutters from those close enough for her to hear; the opera glasses aimed their way from across the stalls. Miserably uncomfortable, she looked sidelong at Raymond only to find he was already looking at her, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

"How they love having something new to talk about," he murmured, the laugh clear in his tone.

Somehow, it made her feel better, feel able to easily avoid the stares and whispers. She was able to roll her eyes with a mischievous grin.

"It's a good thing we have more sense," she said. "And much better things to talk about."

He gave her a sort of huff of agreement, but something in his face seemed to change. She wondered what he was thinking; wished it was even remotely acceptable to ask. They sat in silence for what seemed like a long minute.

"It _is _convenient, though," he said abruptly.

She turned in her seat to face him, curious. "Convenient?"

"If it appears I am courting you, Elizabeth, it gives us a reason to be seen spending time together," he pointed out.

She supposed that was true, and it _was, _in fact, convenient, but…something about it bothered her. She just wished she could say what that something might be.

The lights dimmed, and she settled back into her seat, a small frown creasing her face. Once the play was underway, she heard a low shuffle of movement, and then felt a huff of breath on her neck. Raymond had moved his chair directly beside hers, and the warmth emanating from his body made her shiver a little.

"Does the idea of spending time with me bother you, Lizzy?" His voice was a low rasp against her senses. "It was your plan, after all."

"You know I enjoy your company, Raymond," she whispered back. "But I have no interest in courtship or marriage. Just so things are clear between the two of us, whatever Society thinks."

"Really?" She thought that he didn't sound very surprised, and wondered why. He added thoughtfully, "Life can be very lonely without someone to share it with."

"That's easy for you to say," she retorted. "A man may marry for any number of reasons, and still carry on in life exactly how he chooses. If _I _were to marry, I would lose everything I have — my money, my freedom… _myself." _

There was a brief pause, and she hoped he was considering her words, rather than sitting silent because he was deeply offended. She was more relieved than she wanted to think about when he spoke again.

"How much you would lose would depend on the husband you chose," he pointed out. "No one who cared for you at all would take everything from you in such a way. And you would gain as well — a companion, a partner; love and passion. Do you truly want to live without those things?"

She wasn't sure how to respond to his words, no less heartfelt for being only whispered. She wasn't sure how to respond without being horrifically shocking, because of course, if one was daring enough… A companion, love, passion — all of those things were possible outside of the marriage bond. Not for a proper young woman, of course.

Not for her.

She sighed, and then shrugged. "I merely thought you should know how I feel about things," she said. "I don't want to mislead you, along with the _ton. _I care about you a great deal, Red."

"That's very kind of you, Lizzy," he replied. He'd moved closer somehow, his breath soft and warm and raising the hairs on her skin. "And I think that _I _should tell _you _that I'll be doing my best to change your mind."

Something hot and trembling uncurled inside her. 'I–I won't," she said stubbornly, doing her best to sound convincing. She turned back toward the stage, determined.

"All right," he said agreeably. She felt his fingers then, trailing down her arm to rub against the edge of her glove, and the heat inside her spread. She thought he was smiling. "But I believe I'll enjoy trying."

* * *

And, _oh, _he had indeed enjoyed himself, most thoroughly; was absorbed in her still, though he had left the two ladies at their door some time previously. He _should _be using this time more wisely — Dembe and Cooper sat with him, all three ensconced comfortably in plush chairs in front of the club's crackling fire, having a genial conversation about trade in the West Indies. It was the ideal time for him to ask Cooper a few carefully aimed questions about Samuel Scott.

Instead, he brooded over his brandy, staring into the flames, lost in recollection.

The soft silk of the inside of her wrist where he'd kissed her; where, under the cover of darkness, he'd unbuttoned her glove and stroked with eager fingers, again and again.

The catch of her breath when he'd touched her, skin to skin.

The light and lovely fragrance of her, intoxicating as he leaned close to whisper in her ear.

Her warmth, her smile, her fierce independence.

He was in serious danger of becoming obsessed.

With no small effort, he forced his attention back to his immediate surroundings. The conversation seemed to have progressed to a new mining venture in Cornwall. Raymond swirled his brandy absently and waited for an appropriate pause. When it came, he slipped neatly in as if he'd been participating all along.

"I'm wondering, Cooper, if you ever had any dealings with my old friend Blanchford?"

"I'm afraid that I never had the pleasure," Cooper said, and then grinned widely. "Why do you ask? Wondering if rumours about a certain inheritance are true?"

Apparently, the mill ran more efficiently and more boldly than he'd thought. If Elizabeth thought that a marriage was already on the minds of the _ton, _she might well withdraw from him completely. He issued a look that was chilly enough to freeze the very fire before them.

"I'm not in need of anyone else's money, I can assure you," he said stiffly. "And even if I were, I'd certainly have no idea what you are referring to."

Cooper just laughed aloud, not in the least intimidated by the posturing of an old friend. "Oh, come now, Reddington," he chuckled. "No need to play the prim gentleman here. One of the first things you did on returning to Town was pay court to Blanchford's daughter. You've singled her out at parties, called at her home, escorted her to the theatre — what did you expect?"

"Good grief," Raymond replied mildly. "I see Society hasn't found any legitimate amusements while I've been absent."

"Gossip flows much faster than the Thames, my friend, and you are an ideal topic. And Miss Scott was already the object of much attention."

The instant flash of hot anger was a bit of a surprise, and Raymond had to wait a moment before responding. It wouldn't do to give the game away.

"Has Miss Scott many suitors, then?"

"I don't believe so, although not for a lack of admirers," Cooper said. "She's only been out of mourning a few weeks, but coming out early caused quite a flurry. She draws quite a lot of attention — being both lovely and wealthy — but the only man she hasn't neatly discouraged is you, my friend. Gossip, I'm afraid, was inevitable."

Raymond sighed. "She's quite something, that's for certain," he allowed, thinking that didn't give too much away.

Dembe smothered a laugh, and Raymond knew he was remembering the filthy stable lad.

"Ha!" Cooper slapped Raymond on the knee in good-humoured triumph. "So, the rumours are true."

Raymond shrugged carefully. "Blanchford was a good friend to me for a long time; of course, I want to make certain of his daughter's welfare."

"Oh, of course," Cooper agreed, nodding solemnly, clearly not believing a word.

"At any rate," Raymond said, "I asked about Blanchford because he contacted me before his death. He had some concerns about his financial affairs, and I feel obligated to look into things on Miss Scott's behalf."

Cooper's expression sobered, and he nodded again, thoughtfully this time. A bit too fond of gossip he might be, but he was a good friend with a sharp mind.

"I'd be happy to make some inquiries," he said. "If it would be of help."

"Thank you," Raymond said. "I've been out of the country for so long, I don't have the connections I once did."

"Consider it done," Cooper said quietly. "I'll let you know if I discover anything of interest."

Raymond sat for a long while after that, thinking not of his old friend and the mystery surrounding his death, but of soft skin, sapphire eyes, and a sweet, sad smile.


	7. Chapter 7

The day outside was bright and sunny, but Elizabeth took no notice. Could take notice of nothing, at all.

The inside of her wrist still veritably _tingled, _as if Raymond had touched her mere moments ago, rather than hours. She found herself transfixed by her own limb, unable to believe that there was no mark, no physical evidence of his caresses. She thought, wonderingly, that the mark was there, visible or not.

_"Elizabeth." _

Aunt June's voice brought her out of her reverie, the sharp tone indicating that this wasn't the first time her aunt had spoken. Elizabeth realized she was holding the butter knife partway to her toast while she stared, seemingly at nothing. She busied herself with her breakfast, flushing pink.

"I'm sorry, Aunt," she said, striving to sound normal. "I believe I'm just tired from the late night." Although it hadn't been that late, in particular.

Aunt June smiled in a knowing sort of way that made Elizabeth blush harder.

"It was certainly a treat to have such a charming escort," June remarked. "Don't you think?"

Elizabeth was used to this sort of hint, no matter how it embarrassed her, and sidestepped nimbly. "Lord Blackwood was very kind to patronize us, I'm sure. Oh Aunt, did you _see _what Lady Aster was wearing?"

Easily distracted by gossip — at least for the time being — Aunt June sniffed disapprovingly. "No one over twenty-one has any business in _that _shade of pink, to be sure," she replied. "And four flounces is too many for anyone."

Elizabeth giggled, and managed to get through breakfast with the cheerful distraction of picking apart the _ton. _She slipped away with a murmured excuse the moment her toast was finished, and took refuge in Sam's study.

She sat at his desk and just _breathed in, _the scent of ink and books and a hint of old smoke immeasurably comforting.

"Oh Papa," she sighed, rubbing her hand over the soft blotter on his desktop. "I wish I could speak with you just one last time."

She'd ask him about his business, she thought, and wouldn't let him put her off with well-meant assurances. She'd ask about his partners and their motivations, she'd…

She was sitting at his desk, she realized, and without further hesitation, began to hastily rifle through his drawers. To her disappointment, the contents were sparse and insignificant — either Mister Oates or Tom had clearly already removed anything of the least importance.

_Of course they did, _she thought ruefully. Obviously, when working through the estate, Sam's man of affairs would have needed…but what was this? The bottom drawer stuck halfway open, and wouldn't open any further.

It looked empty…but if it was, why would it stick so? It took no little effort and left her with a bruised finger, but Elizabeth triumphed in the end, retrieving a small, leather-bound book from its spot wedged at the very back, between the bottom drawer and the one above it. It was the work of mere moments to realize that she was holding her father's journal, and her heart thumped painfully. Did she want to invade her papa's innermost thoughts? Did she want to read about _herself? _

_What if he had been disappointed in her? _

She couldn't do it. She'd pass the journal to Blackwood — he'd read it for her and see if there was anything important in its pages. Somehow, it was easy to trust him with such a precious object.

Elizabeth was contemplating whether she could entrust the parcel to a messenger and, if so, if there was a great deal of impropriety in sending a parcel to an unattached male, when a heavy tread at the door raised her from her thoughts. It was Tom, and she was glad enough to be interrupted in her dithering that she smiled brightly — perhaps a little more than she should have. He smiled back, face shining with pleasure.

"Miss Scott," he said warmly, hastening toward the desk. "I wasn't sure I'd see you this morning." He took her hand over the desktop and bowed over it as neatly as any courtier.

Here was a saviour, she thought happily. Tom would tell her what she needed to know, and she wouldn't need to feel guilty about not reading the diary.

"It's nice to see you, too, Tom — and how often must I tell you to call me Elizabeth?"

His smile grew wider. "Perhaps just a few more times, Miss Elizabeth," he replied teasingly. "Are you in need of the study this morning?"

"Oh no," she answered. "I was just looking for something, but now that you're here, I don't need to look anymore. I'm sure you can help me."

"I will certainly try," Tom said gallantly. "What were you searching for?"

"I wanted the names of Papa's last investment group." She tried not to sound too eager, but Tom looked mystified.

"I don't mean to be rude," he said. "But what on earth _for?" _

"I think one of them might be the murderer," she whispered excitedly. "Who else would profit as much from his death?"

Tom's expression was truly shocked. "Oh, Elizabeth, I don't think…all the gentlemen involved are quite respectable."

Elizabeth waved his protests aside with a _pfft _of annoyance. "Money is the great motivator, Tom," she insisted. "Many respectable men have done terrible things in its name."

"And what will you do with these names?" he queried anxiously. "You cannot _approach _these gentlemen and question them about Sam's death."

"Nonsense," she replied, whisking out a fresh sheet of foolscap. "I'm a lady of Society now, Tom. I'll simply arrange to dance with them, or…perhaps a chance meeting at a refreshments table. It should be simple enough."

"And if one of them _is _a murderer?" Tom snapped in disbelief. "It's too dangerous — you could get hurt."

"I'll be fine," she returned, impatient now. "Please, just write out the names for me."

"Promise me you'll take care," he pleaded, his blue eyes shining with appeal behind his neat spectacles.

She smiled — she'd won, she knew. "Of course I will," she said soothingly, standing and making room for him at the desk. "I have no wish for danger."

"If only that were true," he muttered, but scrawled out five names and offered her the page.

Elizabeth smiled more brilliantly than ever, dazzling. _"Thank you," _she said earnestly. "Now, I really should get on before Aunt June comes looking for me."

"I shall hope to see you again soon, Miss Elizabeth," Tom said, all politeness once more.

Whisking out of the room, it didn't occur to Elizabeth to wonder — if the desk was already empty, why did Tom still arrive there, day after day, and what did he do with his time?

She didn't see Tom watching her go, his face filled with yearning.

* * *

Aunt June had greeted her reappearance with a smug smile and a note from Blackwood, inviting her to go riding in Hyde Park that afternoon. It was too perfect — not only did she have Sam's journal for him, but Tom's list of names, as well. The day had been interminably long until it was time for her to dress.

She adjusted her riding habit a little anxiously — one of Aunt June's purchases for Season, she wasn't sure about the deep blue-green colour.

"You don't need to fuss, miss," Sally assured her. "You look a right picture, you do."

"You don't think it…garish?"

"Oh no, miss." Sally smiled at her in the glass. "You're just used to dark colours. This is lovely for a lady like yourself."

Elizabeth still wasn't sure, but she _was _sure that she wouldn't get away with the dust-coloured split skirts she'd worn in the deserts of Egypt. The sound of the door knocker ended her dithering, and she soon found herself astride her pretty mare, on the way to the Park with Blackwood alongside, Blackwood's groom and Sally trailing behind.

They chatted amiably enough as they made their way along — but the streets were busy and noisy and no place for a private conversation. She was eager for the seclusion of the Park, to reveal the slim journal currently bumping in her skirts. But as they passed through the Corner to take a walk down Rotten Row, her face fell and she let out an involuntary gasp of dismay.

Raymond looked down in concern. "Is something wrong?" he asked. "Is your mount all right?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine," she replied, still frowning as she looked out over the crowded lawns. "It's just… so _busy." _

Raymond's horse halted, so she stopped in turn, and looked up at him. He was wearing a frown of his own, now, and she wondered what was wrong.

"It's always busy at the Park on afternoons during the Season — everyone wants to see and be seen, you know that. Did you…" He hesitated, then gave her a wry smile. "Did you not want to be seen with me, Elizabeth?"

She was truly taken aback at the thought. "Oh _no, _Red," she said earnestly, the old nickname coming easily in her eagerness to reassure. "Never _that. _It's only that…I was hoping for a bit of privacy, really."

His face softened and he smiled a better, truer smile in relief. "I'm sure we can find a spot for a chat," he said, and was rewarded by her beaming smile in return.

* * *

He led his charming companion along the winding path, utterly pleased with her. For one brief moment, he'd thought his hopes dashed — and the strength of the pang in his heart had surprised him. To hear instead that she merely wanted to be alone with him — that was a gift he couldn't have predicted.

He wished he could sweep her hat off, and see the sun's gleam on her rich, dark hair. He wished for true privacy, so that he might touch that creamy skin and soak up its warmth. He was so absorbed in watching her, he almost forgot to listen to her.

"…anyhow, you'll never guess." She looked so pleased that he didn't have the heart to ask her to repeat herself.

"I'm sure I cannot," he replied, leading her into the shelter of a pleasant little copse of trees. He carefully backed his horse around so they were facing one another, and signalled his groom to stop in front of them, just out of hearing range. "You'll have to tell me."

"Look!" she answered gleefully, bringing a battered black book out from within her skirts and offering it to him. "It's Papa's journal."

He took the book from her, a little unsure. Her face went somber.

"I didn't…I couldn't read it," she confessed. "Those are Papa's private thoughts, you know, and maybe some of them are about _me. _But I thought perhaps… Oh, Raymond, would you read it? Could you? There might be clues to our mystery and I can't just let it go."

Raymond found himself warmed immeasurably by her simple faith in him. "Of course, Lizzy," he answered. "I'd be pleased to do you this small service."

"Thank you, R– my lord," she exclaimed. "It is most gracious of you, really. And, look, look inside."

"You know I don't mind you calling me Red," he reminded her. He flipped open the journal to find a half-sheet of foolscap carrying five names in an unfamiliar hand. "Are these–"

"Papa's last business partners," she confirmed triumphantly.

"I know most of them, at least casually," he said thoughtfully. "It should be simple enough to talk to each of them relatively soon."

"Oh," Elizabeth said airily. "If we split them up, it will go much more quickly. I'm sure I've been introduced to Simpson and Dorchester, and I can easily arrange a dance, or–"

"Under no circumstances," Raymond interrupted, feeling as black as he no doubt looked. "It's entirely too risky. What if one of them _is _a murderer?"

"And it's not dangerous for you?" she retorted pointedly.

"I can take care of myself," he said ominously. "And at least _I _will be in no danger of being hauled off and ravished."

She reddened, but refused to look away. "That's not…I mean to say…how ridiculous!" Her horse sidestepped anxiously, alerted by her tone. "I'm not…I'm a _spinster, _no one would…" She trailed off, no polite words left to her.

He looked at her, creamy skin flushed pink in embarrassment, sky blue eyes sparkling with anger, lithe form perfect in its fashionable habit, and wanted to laugh aloud. Instead, he walked his horse a few steps closer, and leaned in to cup her face in one gloved hand.

"In that, my dear," he said, voice gone low and gravelled, "you are utterly mistaken."

He leaned one final inch, and kissed her. He laid his lips on hers and she was soft, and sweet, and everything he'd dreamt of.

And he was lost.


	8. Chapter 8

Elizabeth turned over, shifting around to make herself more comfortable. _No, that wasn't the spot. _She rolled again, impatient. But it was impossible.

She flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling through the dark. So much for being a woman of the world, when just one kiss could affect her so.

_But oh, what a kiss it had been. _

She would swear she could still _feel _it, if she didn't know how ridiculous it was. His mouth on hers, warm and gentle, moving softly in a way that made her insides quiver _oh, so delightfully. _An appealing, answering warmth had curled low in her belly, making her lean into his embrace in a way she was sure was wanton, and assuredly wrong.

She couldn't bring herself to care, even now.

His fingers had curved lightly against her cheek, his breath had quickened. Could it be possible that he had been as deeply affected as she? That he, even now, was lying in his own bed, thinking of her?

His _voice, _just before, had seemed to reach into her every corner, so that her entire being was _permeated _with him. _You are utterly mistaken, _he'd said — did that…could that mean he wished to…ravish her?

Another entirely unsuitable thrill shivered through her at the thought of it — even though she didn't know quite what to think. Would he touch more than just her face? What would those large, capable hands do with her? _To _her?

The warmth was back, a rising inner heat, as she contemplated such a fate. It seemed more compelling than not — she could at least admit it to herself. She wasn't _completely _naive, she assured herself. She knew that men and women…lay together, and that human babies were made much the same way as any animal's.

But trying to imagine it escaped her best creative thoughts.

All she could think is that if a single kiss had undone her so, any more and she'd become obsessed. She can _still _feel the imprint of his lips — why was it, _how, _that his every touch seemed to imprint itself upon her like a brand? She thought, just before he'd drawn away, that she'd felt a quick flickering, a touch of his tongue, tasting her.

She shivered again, and curled into a ball, to hold the heat inside.

She wondered if he'd been pleased with what he'd found in her. They hadn't spoken of it — he'd merely given her a forbidding sort of look as if to say, _you see? Do you see what can happen?, _and turned their horses for home. Lost in wonder, Elizabeth hadn't found her voice until it was too late. Raymond had left her at her door with promises to begin his own investigations, and to see her again two nights hence at the Dorchesters' ball.

She'd managed a suitable polite nod and that was all. Now _that _was humiliating. She rolled over again, wondering if he had been entirely disgusted by her inexperience, by her relatively passive response.

She wondered, lying in the dark, if he'd want to kiss her again. Because, she realized, _she _wanted it, wanted it a great deal. And maybe, she dared to think, maybe _more. _

She wanted to know more about this compelling inner heat, about the shivery thrills he caused. Wanted to feel more than the fine leather of his glove on her cheek; wanted him to _touch _her, in reality.

But could she ask for it?

She had meant what she'd said to him the previous night — she had no interest in getting married and forfeiting all her freedom and independence. No interest in being shackled to some feckless lord who cared for nothing but her wealth and her ability to bear him a son. Least of all to Raymond, who seemed so different — for it would utterly break her heart if he turned out to be just like all the rest.

But to know more about these astonishing feelings, _that _she did want. Was she worldly enough — _brave _enough — to get what she wanted?

Could she ask Raymond Reddington, the Earl of Blackwood, to have an affair?

* * *

Raymond stretched his legs out before the fire in his study with a windy sigh. It had been a long day, and he was still in no condition for sleep.

He'd spent the evening at the club, re-making business acquaintances and putting out gentle feelers about the names on Lizzy's list. None had immediately jumped out as the villain, although Spencer was apparently depending rather heavily on this last investment. It was a large step from strapped for cash to murderer, though, and Raymond needed to step carefully.

Cooper had been an invaluable asset — full of gossip about just about everyone; amiable enough to make any number of introductions without asking questions. Raymond was grateful he'd managed to keep the other man as a friend, despite his years away.

In just the one evening, Raymond had been re-introduced to one of the men her knew from the list, had an interesting and friendly conversation with the man, and concluded that he could be eliminated as a murder suspect.

The thought made him chuckle aloud — what on _earth _was he doing? Playing the part of Bow Street Runner for an impetuous young woman with too much imagination and too much time on her hands, like an utter fool.

But even as he chastised himself, he recalled the earnest plea in those bright blue eyes, and knew he would keep looking. If for no other reason than to keep that innocent faith in him alive. She was certainly the first to see Raymond Reddington as a saviour. The thought made him smile. He rather thought he'd enjoy saving young Miss Scott — even from herself, if necessary.

And he had clearly given up _not _thinking about Elizabeth. He would have scoffed at the idea of infatuation, would have claimed to be far too old to be so foolish, but…that kiss. He pictured the sweet bewilderment on her face when he'd drawn away from her; remembered the fresh taste of her on his tongue.

If he hadn't already decided to pursue her, he certainly would have at that moment. It had been so difficult not to just sweep her into the bushes and make her his own, he'd barely been able to speak. He wondered if she thought him rude, unpardonable, or worse, a brute.

The thought of losing her regard was extremely distasteful. If she'd been offended, though, she hadn't said anything — too horrified to speak? She hadn't looked angry or revolted, though, merely thoughtful, as if he had given her a puzzle to solve.

He could work with thoughtful. And her mystery — whether he believed in it or not — gave him an excuse to be with her, to become a part of her life. In doing so, he could make her care for him, he was sure. If he was cautious, if he was clever, he could.

To that end, he supposed there was more work he could do to help her, to endear himself to her, rather than just sit around obsessing over her. Over her impossibly soft mouth, clean herbal scent, the deep pools of her…

Raymond shook himself, feeling absurd. He was no stripling boy, to moon about over a woman or write poetry to her eyes. He was an experienced man, a widow, a businessman — and if he wanted a woman, he would have her. He gave himself one more maudlin moment to hope that she might want him, in return, then picked up Sam's worn journal.

He flipped absently through the pages, smiling over his old friend's obvious delight in his daughter. Sam had been pleased by her curiosity and wit, her keen intelligence, and a near infallible ability to read people. Sam had been steered away from a bad business deal or dangerous acquaintance more than once by Elizabeth's dislike or distrust, and he appeared to have come to rely on her instincts.

Raymond paused, considering. If Sam had put so much trust in Elizabeth's feelings, perhaps he should do the same. Perhaps there _was _more to his mentor's death than a simple illness.

He moved to the last several pages and began to read anew. Sam's concerns over his last days seemed divided between his latest investment and one Thomas Keen. The investment appeared a standard enough affair, and Sam trusted his partners. His main concern over it was that it do well, and ensure a healthy inheritance for his sister and his child.

_Not that you needed it, _Raymond thought ruefully. It was like Sam to overdo, to go the extra mile for his loved ones.

Young Mister Keen, however, was another matter entirely. Sam's first thoughts on him were only brief mentions of a bright assistant, a worthy apprentice to Mister Oates. But his opinion quickly grew darker.

The young man paid too much attention to Elizabeth — far more than was seemly. Sam appeared to partially blame himself for this, as Elizabeth was well accustomed to making friends among the other young people on his expeditions, regardless of their position. He felt as though he had not adequately prepared her for how different things were — indeed, _must be _— here in Town.

And so, while Sam resettled into a life of business rather than exploration, busy at his desk with Mister Oates, Elizabeth made fast friends with Mister Keen, right there on the opposite side of the study. Sam was certain all was innocent on Elizabeth's part, but he could see the young man's attraction.

Raymond wondered how different _he _really was. Was he merely another dazzled supplicant, seeking to worship where only friendship was sought in return? Was he even worse, just another lecherous old widower seeking a sweet young body to warm his bed?

Then he thought of the soft give of her mouth under his, her shy smile, her sidelong looks, and felt sure it _was _different. He wanted her — _oh, how he wanted _— but he didn't think he was alone.

And such foolish thoughts were getting him nowhere.

Raymond turned back to the journal, paying more attention now as he scanned the pages. He read of the progress of Sam's investment, of the geniality of the partners, and their confidence in success. He also read of Tom Keen's increasing interest in Elizabeth — he'd begun to seek her out upon entering the house, slipping her little notes, bringing her books that she'd spoken of. All in all, the behaviour of a hopeful suitor — except, of course, that the boy was completely unsuitable.

Elizabeth laughed off Sam's concerns — they were simply friends, Sam worried too much, she was too old and not interested in romance and marriage. Raymond noticed it was shortly after the second such conversation that Sam had written his letter to Raymond himself, seeking advice. He took another moment to curse the capricious seas, then read on. Almost immediately, he encountered an entry that truly made his heart quail.

* * *

_I have long been concerned over the friendship between my Lizzy and the boy Tom Keen. Today, my concern has been elevated to true fear, and I know not what to do._

_Young Keen came alone to the house this afternoon, seeming determined to speak with me. With some trepidation, I allowed him to have his say — and all my concerns were quickly realized._

_The young man had gathered his courage to ask for Elizabeth's hand in marriage. He spoke well and earnestly at first, and I could have respected him for that. For loving Elizabeth enough to try — for who could help but love her?_

_But after I refused him… I tried to be kind, of course, but obviously I cannot possibly countenance such a match. Unbelievably, he continued to press, having the nerve to argue with me!_

_Eventually, this young man flew into a rage, swearing he would have Elizabeth regardless of what I thought or said or did. He was near apoplexy when he struck my desk with his fists and hurled the inkstand across the room as though it weighed nothing at all. He appeared a madman, and in truth, I believe he would have attacked me had not Jensen come in the room, alerted by the noise._

_I shall be forever thankful that Elizabeth and her aunt were out of the house making calls when this outrageous display occurred, or I truly do not know what might have happened. I still do not know, and I find myself deeply troubled. Will he accost her in the street? Haul her off to Gretna Green, or worse, seek to ruin her?_

_What must I do to keep my Lizzy safe? Shall we retreat to the country estate? Leave England again entirely, where we are both happier at any rate? Whatever I decide, I must do so soon._

* * *

Equal parts shocked and enraged, Raymond turned the page to find the next blank. This alarming tale had been Sam's last entry, and Raymond felt himself as adrift as his old friend had been. This Keen was clearly not just an earnest young man with an admiration for a lovely lady, but a dangerous individual. Just how dangerous, Raymond supposed, remained to be seen.

He thought of her again, Elizabeth — beautiful, impulsive, brave, clever. He thought of the clear blue of her eyes when he'd kissed her, of her mud-streaked face under a boy's cap. Of her lovely laugh and her kindness. Of the warmth of her silky skin.

He thought, staring into the fire once more, that finding a possible murderer was all well and good, but was no longer his priority. Now, his task was to safeguard Elizabeth — whether she wanted him to or not.

He would protect her, come what may.


End file.
